Just a Touch of Mist
by jilduck
Summary: Kuja's reflections on creating the first mage with a soul. Vivi, perhaps? Or another? Actually, that's not even revealed in the fic at all. . .but anyway. R/R and no flames, please!


Just a Touch of Mist  
Wow, since y'all liked my first Kuja fic (Out of the Blue), here's another one! Kuja's so fun to write about. He's pretty + dark in nature. Good combination, might I say. (Sounds kind of like Sesshoumaru, ne?^_^) (And you'll find I like to do a lot of describing of Kuja here, so don't mind it; I like to do description. Especially about Kuja. I like to emphasize how pretty and attractive he is.) I suppose this could be considered a sequel to the first of some sorts, as I use a few references to the first fic, but not another chapter to Out of the Blue. So enjoy this one, and please review (no flames, please (except for a certain Faeria417, she has the right to do so because it's an inside joke)). Ugh. . . . . . . So much writing, so little time. . . .Anyway, toodles! ~_^   
- Shippou-chan  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own FFIX or any of its characters. But it would be nice to own Kuja... ^_^  
  
  
It was dark inside of the underground caves. The faded cries of tortured souls echoed through the tunnels and vast cavernous cavities, creating an eerie whisper upon the still air. The only light was provided by torches, their dim, flickering flames coating everything within their groping reaches with an unnatural blue. The ground was not visible. It was frosted with a thick icing of a strange substance, almost fog-like in nature. The Mist. It flowed steady about the ground, rolling wave-like through tunnels and then spreading out like calm, silent puddles after a heavy downpour. It was the perfect place to hide a secret. Footsteps echoed through the labyrinth of tunnels, slowly and quietly, as though they were creeping into a place where they shouldn't be. Then, illuminated by the dancing azure light of a torch, a figure came into view.  
  
He was unnaturally beautiful. His features, so delicate, were feminine, though he was far from being a woman. His skin was so pale, like a dove's feather, his long, flowing hair an exquisite silver-purple. His lips, sweet as ambrosia, were dark as those of a wolf. His eyes. . . oh, his eyes. They were the color of the purest sapphire, the clearest ocean, highlighted with a smear of dark red, almost bloodlike in color. But what was strange about those wonderful eyes were that they looked darker, mysterious. They reflected pain and hurt, even hatred in their gaze; no love was seen swimming in their depths. His form was slender and curved, much like a woman's, and he wore clothing that showed his beautiful body off well. Kuja was fond of beautiful things. He was a narcissist, always finding beauty within himself. With a small sigh in awe of the Mist pooled around him, he continued to make his way towards the deepest part of the cavern, where his secret lay. His hair, like a long, flowing river, blew into his beautiful features as he quickened his pace. He quickly brushed the shimmering strands away with an elegant flick of a slender hand that protruded from a long, billowing white sleeve. The Mist at his black-booted feet swirled and danced around him, clinging to his cape and reaching up to touch his bare midriff, so soft and smooth. Kuja delighted at the feel of it, the feel of a thick brew of power and evil wanting him, wanting his existence. A slight smirk played upon his dark lips as he let one hand trail in the Mist, letting the substance reach for it, caress it, play about his fingers. He withdrew his hand and pressed it against a cheek, feeling its energy soak like herbal water into his skin. A wisp of Mist was left on his index finger; he gently licked it off, letting it coat his tongue with its power. He swallowed, closing his eyes and almost feeling its evil energy flowing through his blood. He walked a little further, taking his time now as he looked at the walls of the twisting, turning tunnels, and took a flickering torch from its place on a damp, cold wall. The dancing fire was strangely beautiful, and was equally exquisite in its reflection in Kuja's haunting eyes.   
  
It didn't take Kuja long to reach his special place. It was a strange underground mineral spring, which bubbled and frothed with boiling black water, dark from all the sediments and grit from the cave walls. It clashed with the foamy-white of the Mist, making the dank cavern seem otherworldly, as if out of a new dimension entirely. Kuja slowly took a step forward, his feet splashing in small puddles of the onyx water. A bit splashed upon his hand. Tilting his head to the side in almost a curious fashion, he examined the water splashed so carelessly on his beautiful skin. The swirling black water, like ink, could be seen easily on his pale hand, and it dripped like spilt blood off of his fingers, turning almost invisible when it reached his black-painted fingernails. He casually wiped it on the rim of his cape, frowning ever so slightly. He did not approve of anything that marred his beauty. And he continued forward still, this time more careful of where he stepped, until he reached something that lay hidden on the ground.   
  
It was an egg, its silver shell smooth and shiny, with swirling Mist within its depths. It sat in a small bubbling pool, incubated by the natural heat of the water that nurtured it. Kuja put the torch into a small metal holder on the damp, slimy wall, illuminating the small chamber in its dim light. He bent down slowly, his back curving like a blade of grass blown slightly in the wind, and gently lifted the egg in his hands. The black water flowed slowly off of the egg and soaked into his soft white sleeve. Kuja frowned in distaste. The warm liquid made the cloth cling to his skin, as if it were trying to grab hold of him, suffocate his hand. His skin prickled with goose bumps as he moved his arm, the disturbed air around it creating a slight breeze that was made icy to the touch by the wetness of the fabric. Egg still in hand, Kuja warily sniffed the black liquid that stained his sleeve so. He grimaced in disgust. It smelled sulfuric, repugnant. Ignoring the distasteful stench, he drew the egg closer to his body, sharing with it his warmth. He held it against his warm, smooth chest, cradling it lovingly as if he held his own child. The egg, warm in Kuja's arms, pulsated softly, as if it had a living creature with a heartbeat nestled in its depths. Kuja looked down at the egg, surprise dancing within his eyes. He hadn't expected it to hatch so soon. The egg twitched, the Mist swirling inside it moving more swiftly than before. A crack formed in its silver, sparkling shell, causing the Mist to trickle slowly from the rift. Kuja gently touched the shell, as if he were coaxing whatever lay within to emerge. The egg shuddered in response, the breach growing larger, forming a small hole near the top. With one slender finger, Kuja pried open more of the protective coating, causing even more Mist to cascade down the sides of the egg, flowing over his arms, his body. Then Kuja laughed. It was strange sounding, musical and rich, yet maniacal, so hungry for power and authority. The sound of someone who had finally achieved what he was working towards. And then the shell broke completely. With a shatter and a gush of Mist as the protective covering gave way, Kuja found himself holding the result of his "experiment."  
  
The creature Kuja held so tenderly was different. Its skin, wet and sticky from months of developing inside its cradle of Mist, was a deep black, darker than the water that had nourished it, darker than the sky at night when clouds blot out the stars. Its features were quite simplistic, unlike Kuja's extravagantness; it had stubby fingers, large feet, no hair or ears, and no visible mouth against its inky-black skin. Kuja was quite used to this, however. This creature was not his first; he had created many before. But this one, it was special. Its build was different than the others'; it looked smaller, skinnier. Its hands and feet seemed a little too big for its body. And its eyes, they were so. . . alive. They were yellow, glowing and bright like the rest of his mages', but they weren't blank, emotionless, unlike theirs'. Despite the fact that the little being lay unmoving in Kuja's arms, its eyes were so curious, so full of life. Kuja smiled gently as he gently stroked the babe's soft stomach. Just as he had hoped. The little one had a soul. He slowly bent down and gathered a scoop of Mist in one graceful hand. He brought it to the child's face, where it was sucked into its body by an unseen mouth, giving it life. The little mage blinked immediately and squirmed in Kuja's protective arms, grabbing onto his sleeve and uttering soft cries. Kuja made a soft hushing sound, rocking the newborn gently to quiet him, casting a Sleep spell as he did so. The baby quieted immediately, resting its small head against Kuja's shoulder. A slight smile graced his lips as he looked down at the sleeping creature that he had created. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the chamber and causing garments to form on the sleeping mage's unclothed body, made from Kuja's magic and the Mist. A tall, straw hat, a blue jacket, red leather gloves, green and white pants; it was different from Kuja's other mages' attire. But this mage was supposed to be different. He had a meaningful existence, he wasn't just a soulless husk like the rest of Kuja's creations. He had been created for a greater purpose, to perform Kuja's dirty work and bring chaos upon the world of Gaia, devastate it with what would be immensely powerful magic. Kuja chuckled. Soon Gaia would be his, his alone, a world made of Mist and its hell-spawn. He smirked, almost tasting victory, and looked down at his reflection in a puddle of stagnant water, expecting to see himself as the most powerful being alive, both Gaia and Terra at his delicate fingertips. But he did not. Instead, he saw something that made his heart leap in fear and eyes burn with a powerful hatred. The face that stared up at him was not his own.   
  
He saw a face. A face that was withered and wrinkled with age, a long silver beard growing from its chin, and eyes filled with dangerous amusement for hurting others. Kuja said the name of the person whom the face belonged to as if it were something vile, like flesh that has been long dead, decaying, rotting, smelling worse than the sulfuric stench upon the air.   
  
"Garland. . ."  
  
Memories flooded back to Kuja. He remembered his time with Garland so vividly. Cold gloves caressing his face, so lovingly as to mask their true intent, which was to cause him pain; heavy boots cracking his frail, young ribs painfully; whip slicing like a million knives into his back; venomous voice echoing in his ears, toying with his mind. Garland loved to torture Kuja. The Genome gritted his teeth as he stared at the reflection. He was not like Garland. The old man was evil, he created soulless beings for his evil intentions; had created Kuja, his Angel of Death, for a greater purpose than they. Kuja shook his head as he looked down at his little mage, who he had created as his own Angel. . . .No. It was not, could not be possible. He was not like Garland! He looked, with contempt, back at the reflection, and, to his horror, watched the old man's face melt away to reveal a young face, so beautiful at only 15. Kuja writhed in disbelief. He tore at his shimmering hair with the hand that didn't clutch the hatchling, threw an utter fit. The little one stirred, however, and Kuja stopped having his tantrum. He did not want to wake the creature. Calming himself, he clenched his free fist and looked back down upon his reflection. His face, his wonderful, beautiful face was still there, staring back up at him with those cold, blue eyes. But he still saw Garland there. Damn you Garland, he thought, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. Be damned for making me like you! And somewhere in his head, he could hear Garland's icy voice, taunting him once more.  
  
Defect.  
  
The term stung Kuja's mind like a deadly poison. Words could not describe how much he loathed, despised Garland for what that old bastard had done to him. He despised him for mocking him, beating him, rejecting him, turning him into another version of himself, the old fool. But most of all, he despised him for creating Zidane. He clenched his fist harder, his sharp nails digging into his palm and drawing blood. The smooth red liquid flowed gently from the wound, dripping silently off his fingers as he though of the little brat, the ordinary-looking Genome. He though of his mischievous gaze, his tousled blonde hair, his jeering taunts. Why, why had such an ordinary Genome earned Garland's favor?! Kuja would never. . . he would NEVER let this come to pass.   
  
I must not let that insolent little fool surpass me, he thought, biting his lip. I will show Master Garland that I have become worthy of being his Angel of Death. . . and you, little mage, you lowly spawn of my will and the Mist, will help me. You shall help me destroy Zidane. . . . that so-called brother of mine.  
  
Kuja turned from the reflection, brushing a few silver strands of his wispy hair behind his ear. He looked down at his creation, his spawn of the Mist, and noticed how serene the little creature looked. It's too bad, really, he thought, a sadistic smile playing upon his lips. He shan't be so peaceful for long.  
Kuja reached down and gently caressed the mage's cheek, the power locked within the little black creature making the skin on his fingertips tingle. He could almost taste his victory now; could almost feel the blood of his brother, Zidane, and Master Garland flow down his arms and pool around his feet from their broken and battered corpses. And it would be Kuja's own Angel, Angel of Death, to kill them. He chuckled as he placed the baby Black Mage in a strange-looking cradle that he had created for that purpose with his magic earlier that month. A whimsical smile danced upon his sweet, silky lips as he looked down on the little child, made with just a touch of Mist. He thought of Zidane's dead carcass lying at his feet and was satisfied by this image.  
  
"Oh, my little Angel," said Kuja softly, almost in a whisper. "I have so much for you to do. . ."  
  
  
  
There! Done! How'd y'like it? Should I write yet another Kuja fic? Please review and tell me! And major kudos to Quatre's Girl for editing my fic! ^_^ Thanks, QG!  
  
*Note* I need a name for Kuja's silver dragon for my next Kuja fic (If I write one)! I was going to call her (yes, a she) Amamizu (It means rainwater) but if anyone has any suggestions, tell me! If I like yours better, I'll use it! Arigatou, minna-san!   
  
  



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